


A House Is Not A Home

by nothinginfinite



Series: you clicked your heels and wished for me 'verse [3]
Category: Bandom, Panic! at the Disco, Young Veins
Genre: Angst, Child Abuse, Childhood Friends, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, M/M, Past Child Abuse, RPF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-10
Updated: 2012-02-10
Packaged: 2018-01-05 01:56:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1088234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nothinginfinite/pseuds/nothinginfinite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ryan and Spencer are going to be best friends forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A House Is Not A Home

**Author's Note:**

> **disclaimer:** If I was making money writing these stories, I wouldn't be in the debt that I am. This is in no way true or intended to hurt the aforementioned parties. Any similarities to actual events are purely coincidental. As always, please do not link this to anyone mentioned in this story or the people they know.

"Are you lost?"  
  
A six year old Ryan looks up tearfully, shying away from the abrasive boy in front of him.  
  
"Hello? Can you hear me? I asked if you are lost." His face has taken on kind of a sour, pinched look and his hands have moved to his hips. For being younger than Ryan – and Ryan just  _knew_ , okay – this kid sure seemed bossy.  
  
Ryan sniffs and shakes his head, pulling his knees tighter to his chest, whimpering when the action jarred his scraped knee.  
  
"Oh. You’re hurt." The boy suddenly looks concerned as he stoops down to get a closer look. Ryan flinches when he reaches out, but the boy just pets his leg comfortingly. "It doesn’t look too bad. Do you think you can walk? My mom has the coolest band-aids and she gives the best boo-boo kisses."  
  
Ryan lets the boy help him up, but he makes a face at the mention of kisses. He’s  _way_  too old for girly stuff like that. "I don’t need boo-boo kisses. I’m not a  _baby_."  
  
Instead of looking offended, the boy just shrugs and loops his pudgy little arm around Ryan’s waist to help him hobble along. "It’s okay. Means more for me."  
  
The boy bites his lip and turns his head to look at Ryan and gaze kind of makes Ryan uncomfortable. It feels a lot like the ones grown-ups give him, right before they shake their heads sadly and mumble about him being a "poor dear." But then the boy is smiling, huge and wide and  _blinding_  and Ryan kind of wants to touch it.   
  
"You want to come play Ninja Turtles with me after my mom fixes your knee? You can be Leonardo, if you want to."  
  
Ryan’s thrown; no one’s ever wanted to be his friend before and no one has  _ever_  wanted to play Nina Turtles with him. He stares at the other boy with wonder, eyes wide and unbelieving, certain he’s dreaming and making this all up in his head.   
  
"You don’t talk much, do you?" Ryan’s snapped back to himself and he ducks his head, hair falling down to cover his face as he hobbles along beside the other boy, giving a slight shake of his head in response.   
  
"That’s okay. I will just have to talk for the both of us." He readjusts his grip on Ryan’s skinny frame, fingers warm and sure against Ryan’s side. "Oh! I’m Spencer."  
  
Ryan looks up and  _oh,_  there’s that smile again and he can’t help but give a small, crooked one in return. "Ryan," he says, softly.   
  
"We’re gonna be the bestest friends forever, Ryan. Just wait."   
  


**********

  
  
Spencer’s fiddling with the strings on his hoodie, fingers tracing over the frayed material absently. It’s not quite cool enough yet for an extra layer, but Spencer is fifteen and curvy in all the wrong places, baby fat clinging in places he’d rather it not. He’s twisted himself in knots, curving his body in his mirror, analyzing every flaw and blemish. He’d joined track, much to everyone’s surprise and he’s been skipping meals where he can. It seems to be working; already his skate shorts hang low on his hips. But the oversized sweatshirt serves as more than just protection from the cold, letting him tuck his insecurities into well-worn material like a hidden letter to a forbidden lover.  
  
"So...are you going to tell me whatever was so urgent or did you just bring me out here to freeze?"  
  
Ryan’s voice cuts into Spencer’s thoughts and it startles him, enough that the chains on his swing clink together. He chews his lip and twists in the swing to look up at Ryan through his hair, squinting against the last rays of the setting sun. He can’t make out much with the sun in his eyes and Ryan’s notorious for lurking in the shadows anyway, the freaking bat, but Spencer can make out his outline, long and lean, propped up against one of the poles of the swing set, cigarette glowing sunset red, a last lingering connection between dusk and full night.  
  
"You’re my best friend, right?"  
  
"Jesus, this isn’t about the move again, is it? Because I already told you, Spence. It’ll be fine. It’s only a couple of hours’ drive," Ryan huffs, sounding annoyed, but underneath it, Spencer can hear his own echo of  _but what if it’s_  not _? What if it won’t be that easy? What if this is the end?_  It’s both a comfort and a frustration to know Ryan almost better than he knows himself; it doesn’t easy Spencer’s nerves in the slightest.  
“Shut up, asshole. Like you won’t be calling me in tears five minutes after we leave the driveway.” Spencer smirks, teeth flashing in the twilight. This, he can handle, the friendly banter that only comes from knowing someone for ten years, practically living on top of each other in the same tiny space.   
  
(It was never "officially" discussed but after the first time Ryan came over with a crayola color wheel blooming on his face, it was just assumed he’d stay in Spencer’s room. They let him do it on his own terms, though; Ryan would never be someone’s charity case.)  
  
Still, waking up to Ryan’s cold fingers pulling back the covers as he tried to climb into bed discreetly and keep his teeth from chattering, clothes lying soaked in the corner – Spencer always rolled his eyes and climbed out of bed to fetch him warm pajamas before herding Ryan onto the tiny mattress and pressing up behind him tight, breathing against the back of his neck until the tremors subsided and Ryan’s breathing would even out. More often than not, Ryan refused to talk about his demons, refused to burden someone else, but Spencer still stayed awake until that tell-tale squeeze that let him know that it was okay to drift off. – or sitting down to do both his and Ryan’s math homework (Ryan was hopeless with numbers and Spencer learned fast that it was easier to just do it for him. Not to mention less likely to end up with bruising from Ryan’s frustrated flails and Spencer’s bitchy retaliation (pinching!)) while Ryan impressed his latest English teacher with his flower words and complicated metaphors in essay form, the back of his neck turning red from where the twins were gushing about him from the next room over all feels routine and normal.  
  
Spencer would feel out of sorts if he opened his drawers and didn’t find a pair of Ryan’s ridiculous skinny jeans tucked in amongst his own clothes. He forces himself not to think about how that’s going to be his reality in less than twenty-four hours: a new, strange place where he knows no one and he won’t even have the comfort of having Ryan by his side to ease the loneliness and discomfort of being "the new kid".  
  
"Who’re you calling ‘asshole’, asshole?" Ryan settles on the swing next to Spencer, folding his unnaturally gangly body into the plastic sling. Spencer absolutely does  _not_  envy his ability to slip in and out of spaces easily. He doesn’t. He just wishes he looked more like an athlete and less like a blimp. "I’m not the one trying to play telepathic twenty questions in the  _dark_."  
  
Ryan’s rolling his eyes, Spencer can tell. It’s there in the inflection of his voice, too.   
  
"Shut up. Your  _mom_  plays twenty questions."  
  
"Mhmm. She’s good, too. But not as good as  _your_  mom was last night. In bed."  
  
"Aargh, Ryan! Gross!" Spencer’s gagging, half out of disgust and half from choking on his laughter, leaning against Ryan for support, the chains of their swings twisting together. Their laughter dies down and they lapse into silence again and Spencer knows that Ryan’s over-thinking shit again.   
  
"Hey." When Ryan merely grunts in response, Spencer pokes him hard in the ribs, smirking when he squawks indignantly. "No, hey. Listen, asshole. This doesn’t change anything. She’s still your mom, too."  
  
"What? I wasn’t even – "  
  
"Shut up, yes you were. Just. Stop it. I think she’s on a personal vendetta to fatten you up. Don’t ruin her fun, Ross. She’ll _cry_."  
  
Ryan only ‘hmm’s in response, but Spencer knows he’s been heard, is confirmed by the quiet, "Thanks." There’s no need for it, so he doesn’t acknowledge it with more than a head nod. The street lamps kick on, casting everything in a sickly orange glow. Spencer shivers and tucks himself further into his hoodie.   
"Cold?"  
  
"Nah."   
  
And he’s not, not really, but he can feel time slipping away from them and soon his mother will make him come home and in the morning, they’ll be gone, their house an empty skeleton. It makes Spencer physically ill to know that he won’t be just a tree climb away when ever Ryan’s in trouble. He’s running out of time, the whisper of the sand blowing across the Nevada desert making Spencer feel like he’s trapped in a giant hourglass with not enough time to escape being suffocated.   
  
"So, uh, hey." His throat feels suddenly dry and Spencer wishes he would have had the forethought to do this in the safety of his bedroom, nosey sisters be damned. Out here, he feels exposed and laid bare, completely see-through.   
  
Ryan’s hiding his face in the shadows again but Spencer can feel the weight of his gaze. Digging the toes of his new Chucks into the dirt – his mom is going to  _kill_  him – Spencer tightens his grip on the chains.  _Well. It’s now or never._  
  
"I’m gay." Saying it out loud feels kind of anti-climatic, especially after all the time he spent practicing in front of the mirror, a fact that he will take to the grave with him, rest assured. It’s not like he really expected trumpets and streamers and a gaudy sign screaming, "CONGRATULATIONS!!" in obvious rainbow coloring and – Oh, god. His mom would  _do_  that. She totally would. She’d totally make Ryan design some tacky and obvious sign, complete with glitter and of  _course_  it wouldn't be Ryan without a word that’s longer than its definition and even harder to pronounce and –   
  
Shit. Ryan.  
  
Ryan is oddly silent in the swing, more so than usual and Spencer can feel how he’s gone tense beside him. Spencer feels a little like he can’t breathe and a lot like he’s going to cry because Ryan’s isn’t  _saying anything_ , the air between them crackling with electricity like one of them might snap. Spencer is pretty sure it’s going to be him because too much time has passed for it  _not_  to be awkward and Spencer curses the dark because the street lamps cast too many shadows for him to get an accurate read on Ryan’s face. That scares him more than anything.   
  
Spencer reaches out between them, Ryan’s name soft on his tongue, ready to retract his words and laugh it off around the lump in his throat. Ryan reacts first, jumping out of the swing in jerky movements, putting space between them.  
  
" _Don’t._ " Ryan seems flustered, visibly so, as he paces, scrubbing his hands roughly through his hair, eyes downcast, refusing contact with Spencer’s wide, blue ones. Spencer is going to be sick. He doesn’t know how to fix this and undo the damage he’s caused. "Just. I need some time. To think. I’ll call you later."  
  
Spencer’s half out of his swing in an abortive movement but Ryan’s already sprinting across the playground, just shy of a flat out, dead run. Spencer does get sick then, hunched over in the swing he’s too big for as he loses his dinner in the pea gravel at this feet, one thought looping through his head:  
  
 _He’s running from me._  
  


***********

  
  
Ryan is five minutes late to the Smith’s the next morning, doubled over from full out sprinting from the corner store. (He’d picked out a peace offering so Spencer would give him a chance and hear him out. Man can’t resist banana slurpees.) When he finally gathers his breath and lifts his head, the air is forced right back out of them, an iron fist constricting his lungs. He’s vaguely aware of the slurpee falling out of his lifeless fingers, splattering against the pavement and across his worn sneakers in a splash of bright yellow that sharply contradicts the way he’s feeling right now.  
  
The driveway is empty and the Smith’s are long gone.  
  
Ryan is too late.  
  


*****

  
  
Despite his efforts, all of Ryan’s phone calls go unreturned and his messages get ignored. Once and only once, Ginger answered and the conversation leaves Ryan feeling worse than ever.  
  
 _("Hello?"  
  
"Mo-Mrs. Smith?"  
  
"Ryan?"  
  
"Y-yeah." He hates that his breath hitches but he’s so  _relieved_  to hear her voice, even for just a second and it eases the ache of missing Spencer just a bit.  
  
"Oh, _Ryan. _" She sounds sad and the lump in Ryan’s throat grows bigger, the sting behind his eyes painful.  
  
"Is he there? Please let me talk to him. I need to explain. _Please. _"  
  
"I love you, Ryan, you know I do and you’ll always be my son. But you know as well as I do that I can’t make him talk before he’s ready. He’s hurting right now, you both are and he just needs some more time. He’ll come to you when he’s ready."  
  
"But-"  
  
"Ryan."  
  
"Okay."  
  
"You make sure you’re taking care of yourself, okay? I love you."  
  
"I love you, too."_ Click.)  
  
It’s not until his letters all come back stamped, "RETURN TO SENDER; NO LONGER AT THIS ADDRESS" that Ryan gives up, defeated. He crawls into bed, in one of Spencer’s old hoodies, his own letters clutched in a white-knuckled grip and cries himself to sleep, Spencer’s name on his lips.  
  
 _"We’ll always be best friends, right, Spence?"_  
  
"Always and always."

**Author's Note:**

> originally posted at justranda/nothinginfinite on livejournal.


End file.
